


Eurydice, Lost?

by Fangirlingmanaged



Series: Even More Angst Nobody Asked For (AKA Bonus Content) [13]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlingmanaged/pseuds/Fangirlingmanaged
Summary: Recovery involves more than just two.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, as always.

After Peggy’s funeral, Tony is sitting cross-legged, alone in Steve’s study immediately after they arrive at the New Avengers facility. He’s surrounded by broken pieces of wood and torn paper. Steve’s watercolors, which had been a gift from Tony their first Christmas, had been splattered across the room. It seemed as though Ton had found all of the sketches Steve had ever made and torn them to shreds. Except one. Steve’s oldest sketchbook, bound with cracked leather and smelling of ink, had been thrown against the window and the pages were scattered yet intact. Tony clutched one of them in shaking hands; his eyes were red rimmed.

He looked as broken as she’d ever seen him. And it hurt. It was as though he and she were connected in some new way. As though his pain had been passed on to her, and they could share it in a way only someone with superhuman abilities might have been able to. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know if it was the fact that they were so similar. Broken and remade. Seeing as villains till someone came around and figure out what they truly were. Torn and scared. Angry and with jagged edges. She didn’t know if it was having them, their family, and then losing them. She didn’t know if it was the fact that her loss, like his, had started long before Ross ever came into their lives. When Phil died. When Nick had to go away. When Bruce was too terrified to be around them. When Clint decided to start a family of his own. It seems as though Tony began to lose his family far earlier, they had ended up in the same place.

She approaches him as cautiously as she can, the way she’d done with Cooper when he’d been afraid of the dark and she had been the only one awake to help him. She sits next to Tony, he can no longer be just Stark to her, and mirrors his pose. She glances at the two sketches in his hands and her heart lurches.

She can tell one of them is a recent one of Steve’s. The woman in the picture is very pretty. She wears nurse scrubs and she’s carrying a clothes basket in her hands. Her picture looks like she’s about to open a door, but her face is in full display. Her blonde hair is parted down the middle and hangs in gentle waves to her shoulders. She’s got a small sweet smile on her face. It’s a perfect rendition of the real thing.

“I’ve seen this sketch before, you know,” Tony’s hoarse voice startles her, and her eyes snap up to meet hers. She feels the hollow thing in her chest cave a little more. “It’s a perfect likeness. I always thought… I mean, he’s an artist, right? I figured… good eye, and all.” He chuckles, but the sound is wet and broken. “I’m starting to believe Ty was right.”

“Tony,” she says softly. She wants to contradict him. Wants to vehemently argue against whatever lies Tiberius Stone told him when he was younger. He wants to tell him that anything people have said about him is wrong, but the words die on her throat before she even begins. She knows him too well by now; well enough to know the only person who has ever helped him view himself different was Steve. And that is gone now. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” he says simply, and the smile on his face makes her look away. “No, I figured… I thought I had time. It’s a flaw of mine, you know,” he says, and his voice drips with self-deprecation. “I always think I have time.”

“You still do, Tones,” she tries. It’s a shot in the dark, and if the pity on his face is anything to go by he knows it as well.

“I ran out of time a long time ago, Miss Romanov,” he says quietly. The fingers on his right hand ghost over his chest, and she drops her gaze. The words on her report, what seems like a century ago now, suddenly haunt her. How wrong she’d been. “I have to set this right now.”

Her head snaps up to look at him. She doesn’t know what to say, so she keeps silent, but the faraway look on his face sends a slither of unease down her spine. She doesn’t know how to help him, and she’s no longer someone who has felt like that in a long time. She does the only thing she can think of, and which she could not have done even days before. She scoots until they’re side to side, and lays her head on his shoulder.

He stiffens for a second, and then she feels his hesitancy as he leans his head against hers. She closes her eyes, breathes him in, but doesn’t say anything. The other sketch is clearer now that his hands have stopped shaking. She narrows her eyes at the face that stares back at her.

James’s dark eyes stare back at her, but they are not the eyes she knows. They are not blank and deadly. They are not the eyes of a killer. This is a different James, a person only Steve knows. The sketch was obviously done by someone who loved the old James. His hair is short, not the wild mane of the Winter Soldier, and there are no wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He’s got an easy grin on his face, and his eyes look as though they are in the middle of rolling in fond exasperation. The title at the bottom says Jerk, Versailles 1944, in Steve’s precise calligraphy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he might be crying. She doesn’t know, he’s been sounding defeated for days; she doesn’t know just as she doesn’t know who he’s saying it to anymore.

                                                                                      ***

 _You’re not the first person to go through this. You got this, man. You’re War Machine. You’re a soldier. You run around with superheroes, for crying out loud. Come on, Lieutenant Colonel. Up, soldier, up._ His monologue doesn’t really work until he turns his tired eyes on Tony. The stricken look hasn’t left his face since Rhodes came out of his coma. The first few days it had rubbed Rhodes the wrong way, to see that much pity and guilt on his face, but he’s begun to resent it less and less. He thanks all the years of knowing Tony for giving him the fortitude to not scream at him to stop berating himself in his own head. He’s seen him do it enough times to know that he’s blaming himself even if he wasn’t the one that cause his accident. Rhodes looks at his friend, his little brother, and forces himself to his feet.

Tony lurches forward to help him, but he waves him away. He can do this; he _has to_ , and it’s not only for himself. He’s seen the documents that Tony tries to hide from him. Has heard his conversations when he steps into the hallway to take a call while Rhodes is in therapy. He’s met Romanov’s eyes enough time to know that Tony will need his help soon. That whatever the other man is doing, whatever he probably planned long before their “War” is being set in motion. He can’t afford to be a sitting duck when his brother needs him.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Tony says quietly. That’s another thing that hardens Rhodes’s resolve. Since coming back from Germany, Tony has started talking in a way that reminds him too much of the little boy he met at MIT. In front of the cameras and the government, he’s still the same irreverent asshole who has always defied them. Around them, though? Rhodes and Romanov? He’s quiet and subdued, Rhodes doesn’t think he’s seen him smiling since way before the War. “I know the braces still hurt you, I’ve been trying to modify them, but for the moment you should—“

“They work,” Rhodes says quietly. Tony shuts his mouth and looks away. Before, when Captain Asshole was still around, he had been uncomfortable with compliments. Have shrugged and glanced away shyly when someone he cared about complimented him. After everything, though, he recoiled. He wraps his arms around himself and takes a step back. “It’s on me, now, Tones. You’ve… you’ve allowed me to walk again.”

“If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even need them!” he hisses at him, and then takes a step back. He looks haunted, even a month after everything, and it eats at Rhodes. He hates that his baby brother feels that way, he hates that he doesn’t know how to help, he hates that it’s on him and Romanov, he hates that everyone else who was supposed to care about him isn’t anymore. “I’m sorry,” he amends quickly, and takes another step back. “I should—I’m not helping you… like this. I—I’ll get Tasha.”

“Tony—“Rhodes begins to say, but he’s already too far gone. He’s left to stand back, feeling angry and helpless, as he watches his brother make his way out of the room hunched in on himself.

                                                                                      ***

“Agent Romanov,” he says quietly. They are the only ones left in Mr. Stark’s private offices in Ross’s facility. She’s going through yet another copy of the Sokovia Accords with a furrowed brow. Her red pen bleeds through the passages she has marked as unsuitable for the public. It is only because they are alone that she dares to continue with Tony Stark’s plan.

When he had first being approached with Stark’s plan, he had vehemently said no to it. To change something his father had agreed on for the convict that killed him? Everything in T’Challa had bristled at the idea of it, but… even in his righteous anger he had come to realize that not everything was as black and white as Ross seemed to think it was.

Well, either that or Mr. Stark really was as convincing as everyone said he was.

“Your majesty?” the woman replies, and he realizes he’d drifted into his own head. He finds that it’s a habit he’s been indulging in far too much. Not, his father would chastise, becoming of a king. And he might not see himself as the King of Wakanda quite yet, but he will have to cultivate his habits quickly.

“Pardon me,” he apologizes quietly, and looks down at the tablet in his hand. Stark technology, of course, with a direct access to every security camera in the facility. After Barnes’s escape, and the Captain’s pursuit of his friend, T’Challa suggested one of them monitor the feeds in case there were more incidents. Seeing as the only ones in the know of Stark’s plan were himself, Agent Romanov and Stark himself they had taken it in turn to watch the feeds. “But there is something I think you might want to see.”

She gets up and approaches the chair he had locate himself in. He leans the tablet back so she can see, and he sees her eyes narrow at the screen. A young agent, blond and with the posture of an agent that is easily recognizable to both of them, is down at the containment level. She stares the hallways on either side of her, and looks back at the security camera before taking out a device from her pocket. The camera goes black, and then restarts. The agent is seen wheeling a crate out, and going down the hall towards the elevator.

“Oh, good, you’ve seen it then,” Mr. Stark’s voice comes from the doorway. Both their heads snap up to look at him. T’Challa narrows his eyes as he notices the man is looking more and more harried every day. The black eye and other bruises aren’t doing him any favors.

“Does she know?” Agent Romanov asks him sharply. T’Challa stays silent and observes them. She had become more and tenser with every second of the video. Now that gets a good look at her, the anger is very clear on her face, and he realizes he is missing a very important piece of the puzzle.

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says dismissively. He taps at his watch, and a hologram follows as the agent loads her cargo on a nondescript car and peels out of the facility. “FRIDAY, follow Thirteen.” T’Challa hears the anger in his tone as he speaks her name, and he cocks his head. Whatever this is, whatever she is doing, it seems to hold personal interest to the people in the room.

“Is this not illegal?” he decides to ask. Stark refuses to meet his gaze as he instead divides his attention between his phone and his hologram. They remain silent as the car makes its way further south. Agent Romanov remains tense at his side and Mr. Stark pretends he is not watching. T’Challa focuses his attention on the Agent.

“FRIDAY!” Stark barks around fifteen minutes later when the view in the hologram is covered by an overpass. The image instantly rearranges to a clearer view. Stark walks closer to the hologram as another person appears on the screen, and T’Challa watches him curiously. There is no surprise on his face as the Captain comes into view, but something more like defeat as his arms fall to his sides. The King raises to his feet and cautiously approaches the other man.

It is because he’s watching him so closely that he sees the moment the shattering begins. When the first pinch of pain fleets over his face, T’Challa cuts his eyes to the hologram. _Oh_ , is all that he manages to think. The sound of cracking glass brings his attention back to the other man. He looks at him and imagines that’s what his face looked like when King T’Chaka took his last breath in his arms.

“Mr— _Tony_ ,” he says, but it’s too late. The other man shakes his head, once, a hard motion left and right before he’s beating a hasty retreat out of the room. He turns back to agent Romanov and finds her gaze locked on the now still image of the hologram. She storms out of the room and leaves him with a sense of dread and anger burning in his chest.

                                                                                      ***

The New Avengers facility looks way cooler on the inside than it looked on the overhead surveillance. Not that he had ever seen an overhead surveillance. Protected airspace and all. That would totally be illegal. Totally. Had someone seen overhead surveillance? Well, if someone had, it sure as hell wasn’t him, Peter thinks as he makes his way down the hall towards the communal floor.

He tugs at the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt as he approaches the room. FRIDAY had informed him with a condescending “they’re in the kitchen, baby spider,” that could only come from Tony Stark, that the scientist and Colonel Rhodes were eating lunch. He’s been coming down to the facility for months now, and he still feels like any minute they’re going to tell him to get out.

After everything that has happened to him, his parents and then Uncle Ben, it’s still hard to believe that things are going so well for him right now. He feels guilty, too, that he has gained so much when everyone he’s come to care for has done nothing but lose. The feeling becomes overwhelming sometimes when he looks at his mentor. The more they get to interact, the more Peter begins to see the real Tony Stark. Not the charming young man who had conquered the world, or the arrogant asshole that had made weapons, or the still arrogant but less assholish hero he had become. Nowadays, for Peter, he was just Tony. The mercurial man who sometimes looked at Peter with something like longing on his face.

Before he reaches the kitchen, he collides with something solid. The force of his impact makes him stumble backward. He barely has time to windmill his arms once before strong hands are holding him upright. He turns his face up with a grin to thank whoever just saved him from making an ass out of himself, and then he sees who it is.

His first instinct is to take a step back, put distance between himself and _him_. He’s been back for months now, and Peter still has a hard time making a concrete decision about him. On the one hand, he’s never treated Peter with anything but respect. One time when Peter had been in the library reading one of Tony’s papers, the big blond had stumbled inside to paint. He had noticed him sitting there, despite Peter’s utter best to make himself smaller, and greeted him with a hesitant hello. They’d talked for nearly an hour, and Peter could feel himself beginning to like him. He was earnest and cautious, and completely clueless about certain things. It was safe to say he had _wanted_ to like Steve Rogers so much he had almost managed it.

Then Tony had come in looking for him. Obviously FRIDAY had neglected to tell him who was accompanying Peter in his waiting because he barreled inside when usually he avoided the soldier like the plague. The tension in the room was suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. The engineer had locked eyes with the soldier and something had crossed his face. Peter had seen it before whatever it was, back in the sidelines or at home when Tony was forced to rehash the War, and made his way to him quickly. He’d called out a loud hello that seemed to snap his mentor out of whatever stupor the other man’s presence had caused him to stumble into.

“Pete?” Steve’s voice pulls him out of his reverie. “Pete, you okay?”

He was about to snap at him to not call him that. That he had no right to treat Peter with any sort of familiarity, but he didn’t. His most recent painful conversation with Tony kept him from that. _He likes you, Peter. I knew he would._

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” Peter says quietly. At least he’s trying.

“You can call me Steve, you know,” the other man tells him just as quietly.

“I don’t know about that,” the younger man responds. Captain Rogers looks away at that, and they both seem to understand what he means. It’s something that has been understood since the beginning. That Peter has been Tony’s from the start, and until they resolve whatever it is that they had that will not change. It’s something that Peter has approved of and continues to implement.

“What are you doing here today?” the other man asks instead. At least this time he can admit defeat, Peter thinks.

“Tony’s going to show me repulsor tech today!” he’s unable to keep the childish excitement out of his voice, but he can’t help it. He’s always excited about working on something with the genius. He’s the only person who has managed to keep up with Peter’s rambling. Steve’s smile tells him he doesn’t mind; if anything, he seems glad.

“Yeah? He’s not planning on making you an armor, is he?” his tone is cheerful. A few weeks ago, Peter would have bristled. Would have thought the big man was calling Tony reckless, but he’s gotten better at reading him. Peter now knows that this is Steve’s way of asking after something he feels he has no right to.

“Nah, we’re not into that right now. He’s gonna show me about repulsor tech ‘cause he says it’s similar to my webs,” he grins.

“Hey, that’s great! I like your costume, by the way, it’s—“

“Hey, Pete, did you get lost or something? FRIDAY said—“Tony cuts himself off as he glances up from the tablet in his hands. There’s dried syrup at the corner of his mouth and his hair looks like he’s been through a hurricane. His feet are bare, and Peter notices his wiggling toes as his nervousness mount.

“Sorry, I just—I was coming to find you, but I bumped into Steve, and—“

“I’m sorry if I kept you both from something important. I just—“

“It’s fine,” Tony responds quietly. Peter tries to keep his surprise from showing on his face, but he notices Steve has no compunctions about his. He looks downright flabbergasted. Tony shrugs at them both, and rubs the back of his neck. “We were just going to go over his outfit. We need some… um, tweaking.”

“Well, I should let you get back to that,” Steve says quickly, clearly trying not to push his luck. “Bucky’s expecting me, anyway, we…” his voice fades, and he spares a quick glance at Peter. The boy sighs, and mourns for the brief moment when they seemed to actually be going somewhere.

“Yeah,” Tony says, and his voice is no longer tentative. It’s the same flat tone he adopts every time someone mentions their resident brainwashed super soldier. “I’m sure he is. Come on, Pete, you better come say hi to Rhodey before he beats me with his crutches,” he turns around without waiting for him.

“Bye, Pete,” Steve says quietly and he sounds inexplicably sad. Maybe that’s why Peter swallows his hesitation and puts a hand on the soldier’s arm as he walks past. He shoots the soldier what he hopes is an encouraging smile (Tony’s talking to you again! Without shouting! This is good!) and finds Tony still in the hall. He looks sad again, and it makes Peter feel guilty, but there’s something else in his face. A look that can only be determination.

“Rogers,” he blurts out. Steve, who had been making his way to the gym, whirls around. Peter holds his breath. “Maybe you could, um, come down and uh help. With his suit, I mean. We tried but we might need, you know, an artist’s perspective. The design could use some work.”

“HEY! I think it looks good!” Peter protests, but inside his heart is pounding. They’re talking. They’re actually honest to God talking with each other. The smile on Tony’s face looks a little bit like hope.

“You were going around in pajamas before you met me, kid, obviously you have no sense of style.”

“And _Steve_ does?!”

“Wait a minute, what’s that supposed to mean?! What’s wrong with my suit?” Steve pretends to be offended, but he has a big grin on his face.

“You’re running around wearing the flag. No offense, Cap, but the last thing I need is other super heroes laughing at me. Kids do that enough at school,” Peter says with an eye roll and a cheeky grin.

“It’s not that bad!” Steve says at the same time Tony barks out a “Told you!” and then, together, “Wait, someone’s bullying you?!” Peter stands there, in the middle of two people who normally look like they would rather tear each other to pieces than agree on anything, and feels a wild sense of _rightness_. They are still connected, even when they yell and tear at each other, but seeing them _together_ is something just right. They seem to realize the same thing, because they stare at each other and then Steve is clearing his throat and Tony is rubbing the back of his neck again. Peter sighs, but vows to have a repeat of whatever has just happened.

“Come on, kid, we have science to do!” Tony raises his hand for a high five, and Peter rolls his eyes at how much of a dork he is but indulges him enthusiastically. “You coming, Rogers?”

“I’ll meet you down there in a bit,” the big man says, and his goofy grin is back. “I’ll give you two a chance to geek out on your own.”

Yeah, Peter thinks, they’re gonna be just fine. Tony’s big smile is, for the first time, _real._

_***_

_Buck, come on, ya jerk. Ya gotta get up! We gotta go to school, ya lump._

_Bucky! Bucky NO!_

_Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve. You know me. Bucky!_

_Buck, can you hear me? You there? Come on, jerk, it’s time to get up. I need you to listen to me. Bucky, please. Bucky, I need you._

_I need you,_ it’s that last thing that wakes him up from his slumber. The first thing that he registers is the hand on his shoulder and the warm breath ghosting over his face. His limbs feel oddly numb, and there’s a deep ache on his joints that he immediately decides not to think about. He notices the restraints on his arms and legs next, and it immediately snaps him to action. He tugs at the bonds, and they bite onto his flesh but don’t let up. Panic grabs him, all the can think about is _nonononononono_ , not after everything. Not after snapping out of it. not after finding Steve.

“Bucky! Stop! It’s me! Focus on me!” his head snaps to the side, to the pressure on his shoulder that pains him but helps him clear his head. Blond, is the first thing he sees, shining blond. And blue, like clear water, like… clean. Steve.

“Punk,” he grunts, all he can manage. The noise in the room dies down, and he realizes they are surrounded by people in white scrubs and one lone figure in a black bodysuit. He locks gaze with the man in the suit, and a flash of recognition flashes in his mind. The panther guy, who was last trying to put him in handcuffs, and he looks up at Steve.

“That’s King T’Challa,” the blond says. He seems tense all of a sudden, and James finds himself reacting accordingly. He lays very still and waits for whatever else he’s going to say. “He’s been keeping you safe.”

“Why?” He asks, and even he notices how wrong his voice sounds. Too out of it. Too feral. He hates it.

“Captain Rogers asked me to,” the man in the bodysuit says. He approaches James’s bed cautiously, and nods at a doctor close by. James’s head immediately snaps to assess the newest threat. To his credit, the doctor merely swallows hard and begins to loosen his bonds. Shortly after, he’s able to sit up and rub at his wrists. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck.

“Is that so?” and he is glad his voice sounds a little better. He looks at Steve for a confirmation of whether or not he’s lying.

“There’s… a certain interest in you, yes,” the other man admits.

“You mean the asshole that tried to kill us,” James can feel himself tense. He’s snarling again, but this time he doesn’t quite mind. He’s tired of rolling over and letting them fuck him over. His hands aren’t clean, not by a long shot, but the more he recovers the missing pieces the more he finds the will to defend himself. He vowed, alone in Brussels, that he would bring down the people who had unmade him if it was the last thing he did.

“He was one, yes. Fortunately for you, he is no longer a threat,” the man says. James’s nerves grate together at how calm he wounds. His instincts tell him he should be looking for the loophole. Everything sounds, and looks, far too normal for his liking. Even before his “rebirth” things that were this good seldom stayed so.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“Zemo is no longer a threat,” Steve tells him quietly. He is close by, but the look in his eyes suggests that he is not all there either. The hand on James’s shoulder feels limp. He may not know him as well as _Bucky_ did, but James retains enough instincts to know that he should be concerned. He turns his eyes to the stranger, and the other man nods.

“Neither him nor General Ross will be following up on their threats,” the stranger confirms.

“And why is that?” James asks cautiously.

“They are being… questioned by your government as we speak, and,” here he hesitates and meets Steve’s eyes. Something passes between them, and the blond looks away. “I predict they will not be alive for much longer.”

James’s heart beats in double time. The possibility of losing any information on his situation begins to settle in his panic. The machines around him beep erratically, and suddenly he’s back. Back with the men in black, and the short stout man with the glasses. He’s being forced into a bit to muffle his screams, and the pain in his temples makes him squeeze his eyes shut. _What are you?_ NO. Not again. _What are you?_ You can’t—you can’t—you can’t—no—not again—no.

“No! No, don’t touch him!” that voice, it’s familiar. The soldier squeezes the neck between his fingers and then there is a hand on his wrist. Not pulling him away, just touching. Warm, and gentle. The wrongness of that feeling jolts something in his head. “It’s all right. It’s okay, Jerk. It’s just me. It’s just me, it’s Steve; come on, you know me. It’s me.”

“You’re my mission,” the soldier snarls. _He’s your friend_ , James snarls back in his head. _You know him. Look at him! He’s your brother!_ “I couldn’t kill you. You’re my mission, I couldn’t kill you, I failed, why… what are you?” the soldier slams him into the wall.

“I’m your friend, Buck,” the other man wheezes.

“Captain Rogers,” a tense voice says from behind the soldier. He turns around and there is a man in black behind him. He’s crouched down in a defensive positon; claws protrude from his fingers. He’s a monster; a mutt created by the people that unmade him. He’s back—he’s back there—they got him—they’re going to— _No!_ James screams at him. _Look at him, does he look like those assholes?_ The soldier stares at the other man and stops. He’s… dark. His skin is… it is wrong? That’s what they said. The soldier is not perfect, his eyes and his hair, but he’s a good attack dog. That’s all people like him are good for.

“Bucky?”

“What are you?” the soldier says again, but to the dark man this time. The man stares over his shoulder, to the blond, before focusing on the soldier again.

“I am an ally, Sergeant Barnes,” he says quietly, and stands straighter. “I am merely trying to help.”

“Barnes…” the soldier says. _Yes, that’s us!_ James says. The soldier shakes his head. Everything is so muddled. “I… that is me. Barnes. That is the name… I… Barnes.”

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” the blond says quietly. “You were born in Indiana, but you’re Brooklyn straight through. You enlisted on your twenty first birthday. You like to read, even though you pretend you don’t. Your favorite book is—“

“Crime and Punishment. By that fella I can’t pronounce the name to,” James says quietly. His head throbs, and he staggers back. Luckily, Steve is there to catch him this time. “Heya, punk,” he says quietly.

“Hey, jerk,” Steve whispers. There are tears in his eyes, and James hates that he’s the reason they’re there in the first place. So much time trying to protect him, and he ends up causing him the most pain. “You ready now?”

“For what?” James fears the soldier agreed to something he can’t remember. That is the worst part. The forgetting.

“I’m taking ya home,” Steve says. There is a small smile on his face, and it’s so fragile it sort of breaks James’s heart. He makes an effort to stand on his own, and finds that he can manage it. he stares at the stranger’s unbreakable mask, and Steve’s hopefulness. He finds that he can’t say no.

“Yeah,” James says and finds an honest smile to offer to Steve. “Get me home, punk.”

 

Now, a week into it, he’s still not sure if that was the best idea he’s ever had. He’s usually a pushover for Steve, but perhaps he should have thought better about his most current decision. It’s not only the physical and mental therapy, which is mandated by the government, but the people he’s had to deal with. It’s exhausting him every day; the mood in the New Avengers facility is so mercurial that it gives him whiplash sometimes. He’s found that it’s best not to wander the place alone, lest he run into Agent Romanov or other soldier. They are the most blatant about their disapproval of him, and it makes him twitchy.

The more time he spends in the facility, the more he begins to realize the consequences of their actions. There are days where he steps in to BARF, the one aspect of his therapy he controls of his own volition, and lets the guilt overwhelm him. He goes into that room, and sits on the sidelines. There is one memory that he tries time, and time again to remember and expand on. So far he has never been successful. All he has managed to do is have it ingrained in his brain, every ugly detail, every sound… he tries to think on that moment, and pass that. To expand on them from there. He never can, not after meeting… _him_. Things become too real for _James_ that the soldier isn’t able to remember.

“Wanna go in, Buck?” Steve shakes his shoulder. They are standing outside the Met in New York at Steve’s insistence. He was adamant about the fact that Bucky had liked art too.

That’s another part of his therapy, and the only part that Steve _can_ help. He dives into it enthusiastically. He says that it’s because he wants to help James, but the sergeant sees the truth behind his enthusiasm. There is barely hidden desperation in his eyes sometimes. That is the one clue that tells James that Steve needs him more than the other way around.

“Yeah, sure let’s go,” he tries to sound enthusiastic though he doesn’t really feel it.

Thirty minutes later, though, and he’s more engrossed on the art around him that he suspects he would have liked to admit before. Every so often, he turns to Steve, and they grin at each other like excited little boys. The exhibitions are pretty amazing, and they find themselves lost in the medieval exhibitions for a bit, but then they find themselves in the Greek and Roman portion. This, James think, is more like the art I know. He marvels at the marble sculptures, and finds himself lost in a sculpture of Nike. Steve leaves him then to go to the bathroom, and James circles around for a bit more. He’s about to move on when he spots a name that sends a spark of recognition in him.

_Orpheus and Eurydice… Rodin…_

He stands in front of the sculpture and tries to figure out why it’s so important to him. He knows, somehow, that he has thought about this particular piece of art before. He knows that there is a meaning behind it. He’s so transfixed on it that he doesn’t notice Steve’s back until there’s a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, and Steve looks chastised.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he says lowly. “What are you looking at?”

“Orpheus and uh…” he doesn’t want to sound stupid not knowing how to pronounce the other name.  he turns back to the sculpture and gestures at it. He’s still got a nagging feeling like he knows it.

“Orpheus and Eurydice,” James turns around at the name on Steve’s voice. He pronounces it perfectly, of course, but there’s something funny about his voice when he says it. His eyes are locked on the sculpture, but he looks sad again. James has become quite good at figuring out the big man’s expression. This, what’s on his face right now, is what James has come to call as his _Tony Stark_ look. “Do you know what it means?” he asks hoarsely, his eyes still on the sculpture.

“No, but I feel like I should know it,” he admits.

There’s a humorless smile on Steve’s face, but he doesn’t take his eyes away. James feels guilty for bringing it up now because they had been doing okay. It had actually, for a moment, felt like it was helping them both. Now whatever this particular piece meant to Steve was making him look like someone had cracked him open. James wants to help him, so much, but the only person who can heal his friend seems far too unreachable at the moment. Even if he’s only a few miles uptown.

“You should,” he says quietly. “I mentioned it when we were in France. I said I wish the Louvre had been open so that I could visit some of the exhibitions. I… I wanted to see the relief of this same sculpture. It’s… a bit different. Same concept, but that one’s got Hermes in it.”

“I… I kind of remember that, but… you told me the story, didn’t you?” he was frustrated at himself for not remembering.

“I can tell you again, you know, anything you need to know,” Steve’s voice cracks.

“I know,” James whispers back.

“The basic thing is… Orpheus’s love dies, and she went to Hades. He… he managed to convince Pluto to… take her back with him so they could live happily ever after. Pluto agreed, but there was a condition for her release. He told Orpheus that he couldn’t look back until they’d made it out of Hades. So, off they went, and they… they almost made it,” Steve’s chest hitched on something too close to a sob and James almost tells him to forget about it. It seems cruel to make him do this. “He was outside, already, he was outside in the sun and he… he thought they’d made it, they thought they could finally be happy. You know what he did?”

“He turned back,” James says softly. That’s why, he realizes. That is exactly why it felt like he should know this story. A lump rose on his throat.

“Yeah, he turned back,” Steve’s voice is unfathomably sad. “That’s what this is,” he gestures at the sculpture. “The relief, though, that one… they are so sad, you know. They are just… they are so defeated, but they don’t cry. They are… they know that it’s ended, and that they’ve lost each other, but they… they’d rather have a goodbye than… than just cry. And in the relief… there’s also Hermes. He’s sent to get her back into Hades, but… he always… he always looked just as sad. He hated it, Buck, he hated to tear them apart.”

 _Just like I do, Stevie,_ James thought wretchedly.

For a long time after, they stood there sharing in the grief of someone who was thousands of years away. The other visitors moved around them, seemingly blind to the rawness of the moment the two soldiers were experiencing. And James felt a kinship, in that moment looking at Steve’s despair, to what Hermes must look like in that relief.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so i feel like i need to explain myself for this chapter. So i'm taking this contemporary lit class in college right now, and we are reading this novel which references the art piece in this fic. We had a discussion about this in class, and why it was significant and... the whole time all i cold think of was Steve and Tony, you know? That "turning back" is so significant for them. So, in summary, i was just assaulted by a lot of feels. I also wanted to write a story from the other characters, and there's some missing which I will attempt to portray later on, but... for now, this is what happened.   
> Also, i should point out that the novel i'm reading has this experimental non-linear plot that still somehow connects(makes sense)? and so i wanted to try it. Let me know how it reads. I hope it makes sense LOL   
> As always, your comments and greatly loved/appreciated.


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